Glass Darkly
by MekQuarrie
Summary: The past comes back to haunt Steve and those he works with. But this goes deeper than just a few ghosts.
1. Chapter 1

Steve watched the Sun set slowly over the trees. It was a sublimely human experience. He let his repaired left eye focus intensely on the corona of the redeeming light. The x-rays writhed and sparkled at the edge of his polarized vision. Then he let himself be human again.

"Another beautiful sunset, Colonel." Yabbie smiled as he pulled together the slim tentpoles in the dirt beside them.

Steve blinked. Then he nodded. "I like the stars on this side of the world. It makes me feel like I'm on another world."

Yabbie laughed. "The Bush is another world, Colonel." He held up a cardboard box with insipid yellow printing. "Chicory?"

Steve pinpointed the country of origin in the smallest of printing. "Don't you have real coffee? That stuff tastes like tree bark."

"It has medicinal properties Colonel Austin." He winked. "I thought you'd been to outer space? A bit of homegrown tree bark will remind you of home."

Steve accepted NASA's awful rations as necessary, essential even, for travel in space. All the astronauts knew that they had to be an efficient part of the machinery, and Steve particularly knew that they had to treat themselves as a machine - even before his accident. But when he stood back on the ground, he enjoyed the best he could. And a little good coffee now and again was not too much to ask for.

"Let's get the fire lit," he grumbled.

"I'll get the flame going," Yabbie volunteered. "Why don't you chop some wood?"

Steve nodded. He kicked the little hatchet with his foot, launching it lazily into his right hand. The bundle of branches beside their packs was a mixture of lengths. He took a short breath then let the rocking swing of his elbow demolish the wood into little more than matchsticks. He barely felt a throbbing across his shoulder.

Despite Steve's extra-human effort, Yabbie's face was already lit from beneath by the crackling sparks of flaming saw-dust. "A nice little trick, Colonel, but the old techniques are the best. I didn't even need the wood that short. Small logs would have done."

Steve raised an eyebrow, kicking a few of the sticks over to the sheltered stones that they had used previously.

"Don't make those flames too high. Your brothers will find us soon enough." Steve scanned the scrubby bushes in the fading light. They had picked the spot to give them the best view of any person or group approaching, but it also meant they would find it difficult to slip away quietly if anything went wrong.

"My brothers couldn't find us if we were playing electric guitar and drums. My uncles are the ones who will be most difficult. We could be buried in the mud of the creek for days and they would smell us."

Yabbie heated water in a flat kettle and made up the awful looking chicory drink. They each drank a couple of mouthfuls while the skillet boiled their main meal.

"Don't tell me what it is," sniffed Steve, spitting out the last drops of the chicory onto the flames. Yabbie had disappeared earlier in the afternoon and returned with a small sack of insects and worms. Although he had clearly mashed this collection into a paste, the overall effect was still revolting.

"Looks like NASA rations, no?" joked Yabbie.

"I never look at what comes out of those tubes. And I won't be looking at this while I eat it." Steve rubbed his nose subconsciously.

As the night fell, the background noises became louder and some new ones joined in.

"We should have slept during the day," warned Steve. "I'm sure they'll catch up with us tonight."

Yabbie threw dirt on the flames, but allowed the cinders to stay to warm the soil. "Who needs sleep? You get some rest. I'll listen out for their big feet. I'll hear them arguing from two miles away. Don't worry. It'll be over tomorrow when we get that flag."

Steve felt that he needed to show some strength. He was the United States' most secret operative after all. But he felt tired in a good way, like a boy who has played all day, and he needed to rest. He nestled down under a sack of a blanket close to the heat from the embers.

"Wake me at the first sign of trouble," he mumbled. Then the swirl of exotic sounds closed around him.

:::

Steve was woken by a buzzing noise in his head. The light of daylight was bright around him and his head felt like it was continuing to turn as he struggled to sit up.

"Yabbie?" he mumbled, his own voice appearing hollow within his skull. Steve knew something was wrong.

"Steve?" The comforting voice swam around him. A man's face slowly condensed among the brightness. The gaze met his. "Steve?"

"What's happened?" Steve slurred. "Where's Yabbie?" He had no instinct to jump up. He wanted to fall back into his childish sleep.

"Just come with us, Steve." The buzzing became louder, defining itself as the descending whip of a chopper's rotors.

Steve covered his eyes, sheltering them from the intensity of the day. The voice was familiar to him.

"Paul? Is that Paul?" He snatched the name from years past.

"Yes, Steve." The voice remained calm. "I've come to look after you. Just stay still, and we'll get you out of danger."

Steve's head began to pound with an ache he recognized. His mechanical implants, the bionic circuits, were reaching ahead of his own abilities. His legs were ready to run, his arm ready to smash, but his brain was inactive.

"I think I'm hurt. But it was just an exercise." He was plucking words from anywhere.

"Yes Steve." Paul reassured him. "That changed. We're going to get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe."

Steve felt a large harness slide behind him, slip under his arms and become tense.

"Stay still as we lift you Steve. You'll be fine."

"Paul?" Steve's head was still spinning.

"Yes Steve. It's me. Stay still."

"Paul?" Steve tried to lift his hand to his forehead. But it could not move.

"Yes, Steve? Stay still. Try not to look."

Steve suddenly knew what he had to say.

"You're dead, Paul. You died in space."


	2. Chapter 2

It was still raining heavily as Oscar left the hotel. He nodded to the uniformed doorman and let him hail a taxi.

"There you go, Mr. Goldman. Where to today?" The man held open the door with one white gloved hand. With the other he sheltered Oscar from the rain with an oversized golfing umbrella.

"To the White House, Mitchell. I need to have a word with the President." He winked at the doorman.

Mitchell smiled. "Oh yes, of course, Mr. Goldman. Give my regards to Mr. Ford. He always likes to talk about the football. One of the good guys."

Oscar nodded again and sat back in the rear seat. As the door slammed shut, the driver turned to him. He pushed up the brim of his cap.

"You really want to go to the White House, sir? This kind of cab isn't allowed in the drive. Not even with all the new security checks."

"Don't worry," Oscar reassured him. "Drop me on Penn and I'll walk in the side gate. I don't have an appointment."

"It's your money, sir." He turned back and pushed his cap back down. "You want the 'Post'?"

"Good idea." Oscar took the paper as the taxi moved off. He checked the news sections in a set order: baseball, stock prices, weather, politics.

"Nothing about science," he remarked.

"Excuse me?" The driver steered sharply onto Mass Ave and joined the speeding traffic.

"Sorry. Just thinking aloud. There never seems to be anything about science in the news these days."

"I know what you mean. We got to the Moon and now what? Seems like years ago. People just got to get on with their jobs, look after their families."

Oscar lifted the paper to cover his lower face, hoping to finish his unplanned conversation.

:::

The rain and the dark clouds hastened the fall of night as Oscar stepped onto the sidewalk. He could see the distant columns at the front of the White House. As he paid the driver, he shielded his head with the borrowed newspaper. A police officer approached with his flashlight pointed at the back of the vehicle.

"You can't drop off here, gentlemen. Can't you see where you are?" The rain was pouring off the rim of his hat onto his dark waterproof jacket.

Oscar turned to talk to him. "I know. I'm sorry. This man did tell me. I just need a receipt and he can be on his way."

The officer was not impressed. "I'm sorry too. I'm going to need to see some I.D. Both of you."

The driver sighed and reached up to retrieve his registration card. "Just get the receipt," instructed Oscar. He reached into his breast pocket and brought out his O.S.I. credentials, a small plastic card with his picture on it.

The officer looked at the card with interest, letting the rain fall from his hat onto the plastic. "That's all very well, Mr. Goldman. I see you work for the government. But this is D.C. It would surprise me more if you didn't work for the government. Or maybe a bank."

Oscar shook the water drops from the card and placed it back in his jacket. "I'm here to see the President. I'm sure you get lots of people telling you that."

The officer frowned. "I certainly do. And some of them still ask nicely after Mr. Nixon. I got all their names right here in my notebook."

"If you can radio to the gatehouse, they will call thru to the Vice-President. He can reassure you that I'm above board."

The officer fixed Oscar with a stare. Then he seemed to make a decision. He tapped the roof of the taxi. "Get on your way. Remember I've got your number. If I see you stop here again, I'll take your licence."

The taxi drove off without further discussion. The officer turned to Oscar. "How about we both take a walk to the gatehouse? It's a lovely fresh evening. Maybe we can arrange for you to take tea with the President. And if something should turn out amiss - some unfortunate detail wrong about your story? - then we're just a short walk to the holding cells."

Oscar sighed. "That's a deal."

:::

Oscar stood in a side room off the Entrance Hall dripping onto the carpet. The Assistant Usher offered him coffee from his own jug.

"Shouldn't be too long, Mr. Goldman. You know that we have to do everything right."

"No problem, Charles. Normally I would be upstairs in the Library of the Map Room. Tonight was a little different."

"Oh, I remember, Mr. Goldman. Hey, do you want one of those cigars you normally have? I've got the boxes across the Hall."

Oscar smiled and nodded. "You are a credit to the nation, Charles, but tonight I want to be as little trouble as possible."

One of the interns appeared at the door trying to catch the attention of the Usher with as little fuss as possible.

"Excuse me," said Charles, resting his own coffee on a side table. He went to the door and had the quietest possible exchange with the young man.

"I doubt even Steve could hear that conversation," Oscar thought to himself. The Usher returned quickly.

"I'm sorry Mr. Goldman, but Mr. Rockefeller is busy this evening. You could wait here for a while. It might be a few hours. I'm happy to stay with you. We can watch the game on the portable television." This seemed to be his favored option. "Or you could leave your number and the Vice-President will call you as soon as he is free this evening?"

"Did you pass on my note? I know he would speak to me, even during a break, if he knew I was in the building."

"Sorry Mr. Goldman. I passed them the note, but these staff will make it their business to keep every distraction away from their bosses. They're very possessive." The Usher had a think. "I could lean on one of them, if you want? One of them owes me money for - what shall we call it? - sports consultancy."

Oscar was about to reply, but was interrupted by a voice from the door. "Charles? I need you to crack open you cigars. Some of the guests will be getting bored."

Oscar turned as Charles replied. "Ah, Mr. President. No problem. I was just talking about the cigars with Mr. Goldman here. You know Oscar?"

Oscar nodded briefly at the Commander-in-Chief who was resplendent in a tuxedo and medals. "Sir."

"Hello Oscar. What are you doing here? Budget lobbying is over for the year." The President joked but his irritated frown showed he was keen to leave. But he had asked the wrong question.

"I'll get the cigars Mr. President. Why don't you talk to Mr. Goldman for a few minutes? There's coffee in the pot."


	3. Chapter 3

Irina always left the censor's office in the foulest mood.

"Have a good day, Comrade Sarovka," said the young bureaucrat as he closed his notebook.

Irina looked back still holding the door partly open. "And to you, Comrade." She turned to leave again. Her brow furrowed again.

"Irina," he said quietly.

She turned, her face returned to its neutral look. "Comrade?" He remained seated at his wooden desk, a piece of furniture that would have looked comfortable in a junior school.

"I know you are frustrated. We both have jobs to do." He looked down at the desk top. "Your articles should inform The People. I help to keep those articles sharp. The words that The Party ask you to remove are not necessary and could lead to confusion."

"I understand, Comrade. Perhaps too many details can hide the facts."

He nodded encouragingly. "Yes. You see my skill. That is good." He paused. "Call me 'Yuri', please. We work well together?"

She blinked. Then she realized he was asking her a question. "Of course, Comrade. You do well for the Motherland. All the reporters from the newspaper benefit..."

He clapped his left hand on the desk impatiently. "No, Irina. I meant that we - you and I - work well together. We bring the best news to The People in the best way possible." He paused again. "I was asking if you felt the same way?"

"Mother Mary," she thought. "He's talking about feelings." Irina froze in the doorway articulating very little.

Yuri adjusted the buttoned front of his jacket. "I must apologize. I have overstepped my responsibilities." He waved her out. "We should talk properly on another occasion."

"Another time, Comrade," said Irina closing the door firmly behind her. She paused to catch her breathe. Two secretarial staff passed her, pausing from their hushed conversation, staring briefly, then continuing to talk.

Irina looked down at all her papers gathered in her father's briefcase. "The truth can wait for another day," she thought with a sigh.

:::

Irina had been told to head straight back to the newspaper office when the censor was finished, but she felt hungry. She decided to take a brief detour past her house to try to get something to eat. Her mother was washing the stone step as she turned the corner.

"I need some soup," she shouted. "Yuri kept me waiting. He didn't approve anything again. We can't even print that it rained yesterday."

Her mother patted her arm and turned to go into the house. "Yuri is a good boy. He does his job. Make sure you keep yours. You don't want to spend all your day in the factory like your sister."

Irina stayed on the dirt path outside their prefabricated bungalow. She did not want any of the neighbors to report that she had gone home in the morning, during the time of her visit to the censors.

Her mother reappeared with a metal flask and a paper bag. "The soup is hot, the bread is warm. Now take them and get back to working. We will talk about real news when you return this evening."

Although Irina was allowed to do very little of importance at the office, she was required to wait until all the approved reports were filed. Then, around eight o'clock, sometimes later, she was allowed to leave with the rest of the staff. The editor and the printer would then together put the paper to the press.

"Is the family alright?" she asked nibbling an edge of the bread slice.

"Go now. I will explain later. My uncle Gregor is in town. It is a brief visit." Her mother smiled in an unusual way. It was rare to see her pleased about anything.

Irina nodded. She had never met her mother's uncle, a military man, but he was someone spoken of in glowing terms. "Perhaps," Irina thought, "he will make a good story for the paper."

:::

Irina sat behind her desk at the back of the newspaper office. A small partition created a corridor beside her desk which led to the rest-rooms. She still hated the smell and the overheard chatter of the male reporters.

"The post has to go now," called out the office manager thru the hair of his wild moustache. She had barely stamped her letters and quickly stacked the remainder to process them. "These will only take a few seconds, Comrade Barbolin" she reassured him.

Barbolin shouted "It's now or tomorrow," and held out his hand. She pressed the few letters into his grip then began to mark the rest with the inked stamp. He looked at the little bundle without haste.

"These two are not clearly marked," he said dropping them on her desk. "And this one has no censor's mark." He held it up with grand drama. That was always the greater offence.

She reached out to take it back. ""I'll have it processed again, Comrade. There was nothing to remark on. It's only weather notes."

He smirked. "Your boyfriend must have been distracted, eh, Irina?" His leer reminded her of a fox approaching a hen shed.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she whispered. "My job here is very important to me." She collected the dropped letters and stacked them in front of her. She looked down and began to mark the letters with the ink stamp. She hoped that Barbolin would leave.

He stared at her for a few seconds more then let the disputed letter slip from his fingers as he walked off. It clipped the edge of her desk and fluttered onto the part of the floor marked out as the corridor. She continued to stamp her letters then let her eyes stray to the letter on the floor.

Before she could get up to retrieve it, two of the Ukrainians from the print room tramped past, laughing deeply, and coughing like old men. The letter was stood on and skimmed under the desk.

Irina made a decision. "The weather can wait," she thought. "I have a story to follow."


	4. Chapter 4

"The truth is, Oscar, science is great, but industry is better. Space is exciting but oil gets you to work."

Oscar looked down into the generous tumbler of Scotch and let his eyebrows fall. It had been decades since his last lecture in the Principal's office This was the nearest thing since then.

"I know Sir. But a dollar today is ten saved tomorrow on speed and efficiency. Even a smaller space program can benefit all Americans, maybe all nations."

Ford sighed, adjusted his jacket and tie. "I've got to go Oscar. The President's Ball relies on many things. And an attending President is one of them."

Oscar looked up. "Can I get a paper together for the budget committee? There are certain programs that could be funded on residual money. It would be cheaper not to wind them down."

Ford turned back from the door. "The space program is eating us alive, Oscar. The Shuttle will never fly. All your secret operations cost big money. We need to ask what we want from the global situation and what we want to give back. A full-blown Office of Strategic Operations makes no sense when we have intelligence and justice operatives functioning very well in the same areas."

Oscar's face fell. "You can pull all the funding from OSO, sir. It's not about me at all. The threat from global Communism is no longer just ideological. It's technological too. We have to address that threat, push it back, and overwhelm it."

A dark-suited Secret Service agent appeared at the door to the Usher's office. "I'll keep you in mind when I'm putting together my State of the Union speech, Oscar. Speak to anyone you need to tonight before you leave the White House. They'll all tell you the same thing. The pocket book is closed."

Oscar stood up, almost at attention, a throwback to his navy days. "And Steve, sir? Who will support Colonel Austin?"

The Secret Service agent directed the President out of the door into the lobby. His hand faced back into the room to deter Oscar from leaving. As the agent then departed, Charles the Assistant Usher returned with two cigar boxes.

"Goodnight Sir," Charles shouted to his out-of-sight employer. There was a grumble of acknowledgment from the hall.

He looked at Oscar with a smile. "How was that then, Mr. Goldman? The man himself! No need to wait for the V.P. A stroke of luck, no?"

"Yes," nodded Oscar. "A day of good fortune."

:::

After a polite quater-hour of hospitality, Oscar took his still-wet jacket from the stand in the corner.

"It was good to see you Charles, but I have fight the failing economy and Soviet advances in technology. If you don't mind, I'd like to walk around a few contacts while I'm still allowed in the building?"

"Not a problem, Mr. Goldman. The Boss says it's alright, but there won't be lot of folks left upstairs tonight. You might be disappointed."

Oscar walked out back out to the Entrance Hall. "I'll give it a try, Charles." He nodded gratefully.

Charles stood with his feet anchored in his room and leaned out casually into the hall. He shouted to the agent at the bottom of the grand staircase. "Mr. Goldman is going briefly to the East Wing. If you could show him the way?"

The agent nodded to Charles, then looked up the staircase and nodded to someone else out of sight. "You can go up, Mr. Goldman."

:::

Unfortunately, it was, as Charles had predicted, a waste of time. Oscar went from one gloomy office to another, speaking to secretaries, typists and assistants. But no-one of any importance was present.

"Come back after the weekend." "Leave your number and the secretary will get back to you straight away."

Oscar returned to the top of the grand staircase. The sound of the party from the ballroom had mellowed to the sounds of a string quartet. The agent from the top of the stairs appeared to be taking a break, so Oscar stood and listened.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft thump of wet shoes mounting the steps two at a time. A short man in a wet trench coat was heading up toward him. Oscar noticed the wet, outdoor hat was still firmly placed on top of the unkempt hair. That seemed a little impolite to Oscar.

"Someone's in a hurry," he thought. But the man stopped at the top of the staircase, unhurried, and offered his hand to a surprised Oscar.

"Mr Goldman?" The visitor smiled like a child. "My name's Ingar. Erik Ingar. That's 'Erik' with a 'k'." He giggled quietly. "People always get it wrong." Oscar briefly shook the outstretched hand, nodded and made to walk down the grand staircase.

"Excuse me. I think you may have the wrong man, Mr. Ingar. I'm not the secretary of anything. I don't have budget to spend or words of advice. Very soon, I may not even be the boss of anything in particular. Unless you're recruiting back-up coaches for your college baseball team, or you need someone to rewire a plug? I really have to leave."

Erik wiped dripping hair from above his eyes. "I understand, Mr. Goldman. But if we could talk for a few minutes? I am sure you would find it time well spent."

"Are you a journalist, Mr. Ingar?" Oscar scowled, meeting the innocent gaze. "You won't get any whispers from me. I'm strictly on the record."

"Of course. And how ironically so when you consider where we are standing. I will get to the point then. What do you know about Project K?"

Oscar stared for a second, letting his mind relax, trying to not to betray a reaction. He adjusted his wet coat over his arm. It was too late to conceal his familiarity with the phrase, but he had one last weapon on his side.

"I can honestly say," Oscar whispered, "that I know nothing at all about your Project K."


	5. Chapter 5

Steve woke with determination. Restrained. "Of course," he thought. He was on a metal table, just big enough to hold him, in a little room.

"Do not move, Colonel. Then you will be all fine." A man of tidy, but sweaty appearance was pointing an M-16 rifle at him. He wore the kind of light green shirt and pants that might have been helpful in jungle warfare, but there was no sign of any insignia.

"Your English is good," Steve whispered. He did not want to admit yet how awake he was. They were alone in a dirty office, sea charts and weather maps pinned to the walls. Thru the wide glass of the fourth wall windows was a small aircraft hangar. A sad, partially taken apart Cessna was pointed away from them toward the near-closed main doors.

"Know your enemy, Colonel."

"How many guys are you expecting to take on with that thing?" whispered Steve, nodding to the rifle.

The guard smiled, his face friendly. "Just you, Colonel. I am all fine with shooting you if you make to escape."

Steve lay his head back. His legs and both arms were all secured by conventional ropes and tied, out of sight, to somewhere under the table. But his bionic limbs felt cool, wrapped lightly in a foil blanket, one that reminded him closely of those from NASA's space program.

"I'm quite warm, my friend. Can I take the blankets off," Steve quizzed quietly.

The guard giggled like a child. "You are funny, Colonel. But I do not want your escape."

Steve lifted his head again. The foil wraps reminded him of a domestic chicken ready for roast. But there was an extra layer to this foil. Something was cooling his arm and legs. He tried to flex the arm, but nothing happened. He was left with a horrible ache as if cramp was about to overcome him. The legs were the same.

"Can I call you something, buddy? How is Chip with you? You look like like a Chip to me." Steve tried to draw a conversation out of the smiling face.

With a frown, his captor replied. "Chip is a Capitalist name. Kiam is good. A good honest name. Call me Kiam, Colonel."

Steve nodded, trying to appear friendly. "Kiam? Yes, that's a great name. Where are we then, Kiam? We're around the equator, I can tell. The humidity is terrible. Call me Steve."

Kiam stared at Steve's face, letting the requests pass him by. "You are a soldier, Colonel. I will acknowledge your rank. That is all." He raised the M-16 to emphasize his position.

Steve glanced again thru the office window, peered thru the gap in the main doors at the brightness outside. The tiny slit of light flared and burst wide and resolved into a sharp frame of jungle palms swaying gently in the breeze. At least his bionic eye still functioned. Maybe they had chilled his head until their arrival here. Maybe that had been too dangerous to maintain. Steve had faced death before, but, at the very least, he could assume his execution was not top of his captors' agenda today.

But where was he? It was possible he had been removed from Australia. There were so many routes out that a small plane could take. And it seemed he was in the Tropics somewhere. But that was still a whole lot of the planet to choose from. He could even be back in the States. Hawaii or Southern California? Steve just hoped he was not back in Indochina. That would just complicate everything.

"What happened to Yabbie and his brothers?" Steve asked quietly.

Kiam raised the muzzle of the rifle. "Other soldiers? Australian soldiers all gone. Regretfully capture was not possible." He sniffed as if he was disappointed.

Steve sighed and lay back, partially for effect, partially in sadness. Yabbie and his family had agreed to take part in the exercise, a simple test of Steve's abilities under extreme conditions. But playing this game had brought them closer to danger than anyone had planned.

Kiam referred to Steve as a fellow soldier. It would make it easy for Kiam to kill Steve in a danger situation. Steve had gambled on getting a name, but had also made his enemy too human. Could he hurt this man, the man with a name, if he managed to break free?

Steve flexed the muscles across his torso, feeling the tension of the table beneath him. It was a stiff table, but about the same weight as Steve. "Where's Paul? Paul Crowe was talking to me. Before I came here. It was quite important. I think we need to talk."

Kiam stood back. "Major Crowe is busy. You will talk to him in the morning, before his flight. Now just rest. Food in about an hour. Then rest again. You must be fit for tomorrow." Kiam retreated to the desk and picked up a walkie-talkie that had been sitting there among the broken bits of office equipment. He pressed the call button and muttered some local dialect into the mouthpiece. Steve had heard some very low-fi radio talk in his time in space, but was not able to determine anything from the crackled reply.

"Is that you checking in? I hope you told them I said 'hello'," said Steve. He lifted his head again, felt his neck muscles bunching satisfactorily. He lowered his head, then raised it again. Something about Steve's movements alerted Kiam who pointed the M-16 again.

"Stay still, Colonel. You are not essential to the Major's mission." Kiam looked worried now.

"I'm sorry, Kiam. It's just that I have to go." Steve tried to appear calm.

"You are not leaving, Colonel. Not tonight." Kiam was confused. Steve was definitely not in a position to leave.

The fingers of Steve's left hand gripped the rope around his wrist. He wrenched on the rope and curled his chest and stomach muscles together flipping the deadened half of his body to the left side of the table. The table shuddered then collapsed throwing Steve to the floor in a shower of broken wood and metal.

Kiam fired the assault rifle as Steve disappeared from view.


	6. Chapter 6

"Leave the soup pot until later," said Irina's mother. "You had plenty earlier."

"It smells too good, mother," said Irina standing up straight in the tiny kitchen. She stirred the steaming brew with the tarnished old ladle and allowed the salty aroma to fill her head. "What about a piece of bread? I'm still hungry."

Her mother slapped her behind the ear without malice. "Wash your hands and set the table. Show your uncle that you are a lady and not a pig."

Irina rubbed the stinging patch by her tied-back hair. "I'm not a baby, mother," she said as she moved into the pristine sitting room. "I'm nearly twenty years old."

She laid out the best plates and cutlery. Although they were modest in appearance, her mother insisted that they were 'French' and were to be used only for special guests.

"All done," she called out when the three places were set.

Her mother glanced thru the doorway amid wisps of steam and tutted.

"Set another place in case he brings a friend. Do you want us to appear mean?"

With some suspicion, Irina retrieved another plate and utensils.

"Did Uncle Gregor get married again?" she called out. "Isn't he a bit old for that?"

Her mother was too traditional to have ever herself considered another relationship after Irina's father died. Still, she glanced around the door again, her eyes sharp.

"You can be so stupid sometimes, Irina. Shut up if you cannot say anything sensible."

Irina scowled and was about to retort, but a gentle tap on the porch door was followed directly by the entrance of her uncle Gregor into the little corridor. She had always remembered him as a friendly giant in a grand military uniform. He was still the same.

"Where is little Irina?" he joked as he took off his enormous army-braided jacket. "Has this beautiful young Russian lady kidnapped her?"

Irina laughed and took the coat, hugging his arm at the same time.

"You are always silly, Uncle Gregor."

**:::**

Gregor Sarovka indulged his brother's sister before the meal. He looked briefly up at the cement ceiling while Irina's mother offered a silent prayer for the meal. Irina looked down at the rough fabric of the table-cloth and imagined how many pieces of meat would be in her bowl.

"I may be gone for a very long time," Gregor said quietly over his stew. "I thought it best to pay my respects to my family. To make sure they would be looked after. Just in case anything happened."

"We need no special favors, Gregor," her mother had replied quietly. "We are all honored by your service for Mother Russia and the Soviet Union."

Irina tried to smile encouragingly to make her uncle happy. She had no idea what he was talking about, but then no-one was supposed to ask about the things that the military had to do. Particularly if they were in the Missile Army.

"Take out the scraps before I serve the pudding," her mother had eventually instructed. Irina obediently fetched the little metal caddy from beside the kitchen sink and went to the front door. There was a narrow lane, barely enough room for the wood to expand, between one cabin and the next. As there was only one door to their home, she had to squeeze thru the gap to throw their garbage on a little pile. Eventually, when the pile was big enough, she would burn the garbage or let one of the older neighbors do it for her.

She squeezed down the gap, noting the heavy smell of fresh paint from the neighboring cabin. "Someone has a friend on a battleship," she giggled.

Before she started to shake the food scraps onto the heap, Irina realized she could hear the conversation of her uncle with her mother from the vent in the little kitchen window. She stood still and tilted her head to focus on whatever words she could.

"What are you listening for?" asked Yuri behind her.

**:::**

"Comrade Petrov?" she hissed. "Why are you here?"

Yuri looked surprised at her anger.

"I am sorry, Comrade Sarovka. Was I too sudden in my approach?" He took off his cap and offered his hand. "I am pleased to meet you again."

Irina threw the vegetable peelings and tea leaves onto the little heap and fumed. "I hope you are not following me? You already know everything I do. I arrive at your office every day with a list."

Yuri let his hand return to his side. "Perhaps you are saying more than is necessary, Comrade. I thought I was invited here."

Irina turned, waving the metal caddy with some agitation. "I did nothing of the sort. Go back to your little office and stamp some forms. Go. Go!"

Yuri stepped back. He looked a little embarrassed. "That is quite clear, Comrade. Of course, it is not you who invited me."

Irina gasped then pushed Yuri on the shoulder. He let himself step back into the gap between the two cabins. "What has my mother been doing? She knows I don't need any of her help in finding me a 'friend'. I'm perfectly fine being a reporter. Despite your best efforts."

Yuri looked shocked again, rubbed his face and put his cap back on his head. "Good evening," he said formally, retreating back towards the street.

"Where are you going?" she shouted. "You are the big man in your little office. When you come to my mother's house - to my house - you must show some respect to me."

"I thought you wanted me to go?" Yuri noted. "Go back inside. Talk with your uncle while you can. We will discuss what Comrade General Sarovka wants from me tomorrow. Or possibly even the day after that."

Yuri was almost at the end of the passage and about to emerge on the little street. She stepped forward quickly and gripped him by the upper arm.

"What is my uncle doing?" she asked calmly. "Why would he trust someone like you?"


	7. Chapter 7

The door slammed open and Steve strode forward onto the dirt of the airstrip. His legs were still unsteady like a baby and he wobbled as he walked, but his determination pushed out his chest and let the rest of his body follow.

"That hurt," he said as he flexed his throbbing arm. The lock and chain had eventually shattered under his bionic grip, but it had been a long wait on the dust of the hangar floor waiting for his limbs to warm up.

"Sorry Kiam," Steve whispered as he stumbled across the empty strip with its simple markings. The smell of kerosene and wing wax had added to his feeling of nausea as he lay on the floor beside the limp form of his some-time captor. Somewhere between the fall, the furniture, the bullets, the flesh-assisted punching and the snarling, Kiam had fallen and remained still.

He thought again about leaving the M-16 behind, but his enemy appeared determined and resourceful. He let the rifle hang down his back from the tight carry-strap. It swung awkwardly with his own awkward run.

"_Kiam?_" The clumsy military radio crackled at his side. Steve stopped at the edge of a long ditch and thought about replying to the call. He was already worried that he had killed Kiam, despite Kiam's own attempt to shoto Steve dead.

He pressed the call button. "Paul?" he asked. The radio stayed silent then crackled again.

"_Colonel Austin?_" The voice was overshadowed by the sound of vehicles approaching from the other side of the hangar.

"Kiam's down. Please help him." Steve threw the radio into the water.

He had a better idea of where he was now. A Rand McNally street map of Singapore was folded away in his back pocket. It was not a place he had ever been to, but the map made the distant lights and buildings seem less forbidding.

He stumbled down the side of a muddy ditch and splashed thru the cool water. His legs felt alive again.

**:::**

His best plan was probably to find an embassy that would let him use a telephone straight away. His back-up plan was to identify himself to the local police, but it might take days to convince them of his situation and possibly even weeks to be handed over to a friendly authority.

After thirty minutes of climbing up and down ditches, Steve emerged onto what he could regard as a proper street, although he was still some distance from the lights of the office tower blocks. He limped to a gloomy intersection and spotted a street name painted smartly on one corner of a large white brick building. He confirmed with a quick scan of the street map that he was still a long way from the center of the island city in the quieter suburbs.

The building had a hand painted sign hung above an arcaded doorway. It looked like it might be an open air cafe or a simple diner. Probably serving Indian food from the smell. Steve thought that he might be able to liberate something sustaining and make some kind of payment later.

He stepped into the long arcade and saw several rows of long tables. An open window to the side looked like a serving hatch. The light level was low so he chanced looking in the hatch. A man was cleaning a large pot and acknowledged Steve before he could turn away.

"Have you been swimming in the reservoir?" asked the man, dropping the pot into a deep sink.

Steve realized his clothes were wet and heavy and dirty and bits of plant matter were matted in his hair.

"It's a long story. And I don't know what the story is about yet." He tried to smile. "Just give me something to drink. Then I'll get out of your way."

**:::**

Steve sat at the long table, the steam from the tea clearing his heavy eyes. The jasmine leaves floated alongside big lumps of clear sugar.

"This tastes great," he said as a big metal plate with hot breads was placed beside him.

Iqbal nodded. "I need to clean up. And go." He wrapped a cleaning cloth around his fingers and remained standing.

"Don't worry. This won't take long to finish." said Steve. He tore the bread and chewed it quickly. The herbs and the hot oil tasted amazing.

"You will cause trouble with this," said Iqbal pointing to the rifle.

"I only need it for a little while longer. Do you have a notebook?"

"What do you want to write?"

"I need you to take a message to the American Embassy if I am sidetracked."

"I will not need a notebook. I take short orders from hundreds of people every day." He tapped the side of his head. "All up here."

"Okay. I need to trust you with this though. Are you ready? Probably three sentences."

"Say the words."

"To: Oscar Goldman, O.S.I., Washington D.C."

"That is simple."

"Okay. Um: Steve in Singapore."

"Of course. Is that all?"

"And: Is Paul Crowe alive?" Steve shrugged. "That's everything."

"Crow as in bird?"

"With an 'e', but 'Crow' is just fine."

"Easy. How long will I wait?"

"Wait one day. This time tomorrow night, you can… Wait. Just go in the morning, when you can."

Iqbal picked up the empty metal plate and the teapot. "Bring the cup thru when you are done." He disappeared into the dark room which passed as a kitchen.

The electric light-bulb which struggled to light the whole canteen flickered above him. Steve looked up then over to the main door. A man stood there.

"Don't move, Colonel," said the newcomer. His whole form was covered in an olive colored military rain-cape, but he looked sturdy. He sounded American.

Steve considered his options. One was a simple use of the weapon on his back. The other was the use of his own inbuilt speed and strength.

"Are you from Ohio?" asked Steve.

"Shut up," said the visitor walking forward.


	8. Chapter 8

Oscar sat in the restaurant of the hotel. The view of the Potomac was magnificent, and looked fresh after the rain. Steam from the nickel coffee pot spiralled up to the ornate ceiling. His elaborate breakfast was untouched.

"Oscar?" said a familiar voice from behind. "How's the salmon?"

He turned. "Rudi? Come here. Take a seat." Oscar stayed seated, but patted his old friend on the elbow. "I'm not really in the mood to eat today. Have some coffee."

"Why so serious Oscar?" Rudi sat in the seat directly opposite. "It's the Summer recess. Take a break from Washington."

"That bastard at sixteen hundred. Money for guns and gas. The future needs to be built on something more than fear."

Rudi raised his eyebrows. "He's a politician, Oscar. You should expect politics. And he's your boss."

Oscar snorted. "Well, I'm your boss and I don't talk to you like a fool."

"Sounds like he told you the truth."

"Facts maybe. Truth is a different thing. You do realize? We might have to break up the O.S.I. projects, spin them off to other government agencies. If they survive as projects."

Rudi shrugged. "That is a shame. I mean it. But I've been working in the same office for twenty years. It might be good to have a new challenge."

"You sound like the manager of a car plant. Do you really want to move on?"

"I didn't say that. I said there might be other challenges."

Oscar looked up. "You realize that Steve is one of those projects?"

Rudi raised his eyebrows again. "Hmm. It's hard to think of Steve as anyone's project. But the support level - just for his bionic implants - is considerable. Then there's the plain medical aspects."

"You got it," he grumbled. "Do you know anyone with a bequest for cybernetic Americans?"

Rudi smiled and placed his coffee cup back on the little saucer. "My friends don't do charity work. Didn't your old pal Nelson have anything to say?"

"He wasn't there. Or he wasn't available for me. We're on our own here." Oscar let his eyes close briefly.

Rudi sipped more coffee. "There are veteran associations that would help with counselling. The medical side is nearly impossible. I would volunteer obviously, but it couldn't be on-call every night and day. Not if I manage to get myself assigned to other work." He raised his eyebrows. "God forbid, I might even be moved out west."

**:::**

More coffee arrived. Oscar nodded then leaned over to his old friend.

"What do you know about Project K?"

Rudi thought briefly, then shook his head. "No. No ideas here. Is that one of your literature references? Franz Kafka maybe?"

"No, Rudi. I know what it means. At least partly. Some mystery man turned up at the White House, gave me his card, and disappeared."

"Last night? While you were brushing shoulders with the Big Chief? You hold all the cards here, Oscar." Rudi laughed.

"You've been around the world, haven't you, Rudi? A conference here. A symposium there." Oscar met Rudi's eyes.

"Sure," he replied. "You've picked up the tab on a lot of meals for me. Like today I hope too."

"We get to meet all sorts. Even from countries that we threaten to destroy every other week. Science is supposed to be universal. It brings all mankind together."

"I agree. Maybe you should have used that on your funding pitch to Ford?" Rudi laughed. "You mean we get to meet the Soviets on a casual basis. Share a vodka. Maybe two. Sure. We're all adults." He looked around the near empty restaurant. "Why don't we order a few early morning drinks right now if you're going to get philosophical?"

"I'm not sure this is the right time of day," said Oscar. "This is important."

Rudi waved his hand vaguely in the air. "We'll just get the wine list. And I can have a smoke without feeling restless."

Oscar sat back. He had been about to make an important point and he needed Rudi to help him think it thru.

A thin waiter appeared with the wine list then politely stepped back. "Just wait," said Rudi. He scanned the list. "Bring us your best Californian. None of these French years are really acceptable."

He winked as the waiter nodded and retrieved the menus. "And a Kentucky rye for my friend."

Oscar thought briefly then nodded to the waiter. "Make it a double. On the rocks please. Just bring the ice separate." He leaned forward. "I overheard something. At a conference in India."

Rudi threw down the hotel matchbook and let the wisps of smoke curl around his hand. "This Project K thing? So you're not in on the whole grand conspiracy? You heard a few words. And now we're going to turn this to our global advantage?"

"You've put it in a rather odd way as ever, Rudi, but I wonder where the coincidences lie? It's got to be the same name."

"It's not a very original name. Who were the perpetrators of this lack of originality? The Soviets like to call their evil schemes by friendly names like 'Babushka' and 'Joe'. It'll be the East Germans. 'Projekt K' with another 'k' would be right up their _straße_."

"It was a materials and textiles conference. In Madras. By the ocean. Too hot and too many flies. A lot of talk about spin-offs from all the space projects. Even the Chinese turned up."

"Did they bring an electrostatic copier?" he laughed. "I'm sure they were interested in everything you had to say."

"No. It was all tame stuff. For us it was a chance to make contacts. You know, speak to people with brains and common sense. And for our embassy staff…"

"Intelligence agents?"

"Yes, ...it was a chance to see who all the players were."

"And probably the same for their clerical workers. A chance to take a look at you."

Oscar sipped the whiskey and rubbed his chin. "That's what worries me."


End file.
